


Choose the Dress, Do the Dance

by mikeginsanity (blahblahwahwah)



Series: Choose the Dress [1]
Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Friendship, Friendship/Love, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwahwah/pseuds/mikeginsanity
Summary: Response to a Tumblr promptPitch-fics:what If Ginny had chose her mom and the dresses and the dance and all that. And left baseball behind? What would her life look like? Would she still meet mike Lawson?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently have nothing else swimming in my mind but this Bawson madness. I legit crave those too  
> I wrote this.  
> Because I can.

Thing is. She’s not even his type.

Mike never does think much of the rookie sportscaster on  _Fox_. She’s barely been around for a year but she’s already on the ‘who’s who of the sports networks‘ list.

His whole team fawns over her like bunch of lovesick puppies. The only reason they don’t ever try to hit on her is because Blip’s taken to adopting her as the little sister he never had, ever since she bonded with his wife. 

“She don’t date ballplayers.” Blip would yell whenever anyone of them begged for an introduction.

Mike doesn’t let his mind even wander close to the idea, because he’s the freshly divorced ex-husband of a sports journalist. (He knows, it makes him seem like an asshole. He just doesn’t want to go near the genus of ‘pretty female sports nerds’ because he’s worried he’ll chase after them on a rebound - and they're  _all_  like Rachel - in some form or the other.)

He realizes, in time that Ginny Baker’s a whole other picture when compared to Rachel. His wife (ex, wife) channeled a casual sexy sportsy-bunny image on purpose, while she played hardball on screen. But Ginny Baker - this beautiful, empowered woman-child, with a beautiful face and a beautiful mouth who dresses like a political animal with her power suits - she’s no pushover, either.

She looks and talks like a hard hitting seasoned frontline anchor for CNN, and it's only her face that betrays her youth. She’s got the brains to go with her mouth and personality. She knows her baseball. He’s always kinda hooked on to listening to her opinions, given with a clinical clarity – so much so that it gives him insights into his own game. She takes on the frumpy old legends on sports television with infallible confidence like she was born for that role. More than once, her grit and brutal honesty makes her a target for abuse. Mike’s heard a lot of misogynistic verbal cruely hurled at her -  _on TV_ , by disgruntled players and cynical spotscasters alike. She handles it well - too - they just bounce off her like a whiffle ball off an oak tree.

Mike admires her. And that’s it.

Ginny Baker’s already got a reputation for being a snob. She doesn’t do PR events with players. She’s publicly stated that it keeps her from being objective especially when she has to dissect their game. She’s asked to interview him just the once. He was so deep in shit after an injury to his knee and Rachel’s betrayal that he declined. She never asked again.  

Okay. So maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t  _like_  her.

There is no one she will spare, not one player who’s bullshit she won’t call out. It’s no surprise to him –three episodes of her show is all it takes to know that she is all a purist lover of the game. Like that lady won’t even spare Sanders (who bless his mature yoda heart takes her shit like constructive critique) and they’re  _friends_!

But – for some inexplicable reason, the worst thing she’s ever hit Mike with: “He’s had a bad day.”

Even, if he fucks up big time. Even when  _he_ knows he’s fucking up. She’s  _never_  criticizes him.

And everyone’s noticed.

And Mike feels left out, at times.

He’s a masochist like that.

 

 

It’s sort of funny that the first time he meets her in person, it’s at a charity baseball event organized by her network for some women-in-sports initiative. A mix of celebrity newspersons vs. professional athletes.  He reckons she must believe in the cause that much if she made an exception.  

He almost doesn’t recognize her – in the custom made jersey, cleats and her P cap.  Her hair’s all pulled back and she’s got no make-up on.

“Look what we got here!” He greets her, finding that he likes her better without make up when he sees her up close. “Ginny Baker in the flesh!”

Mike knows that look in her eyes. That awestruck, admiring look. He’s a little awed himself, because he never really thought the toughest woman in sports media would be _his_  fan.

She looks like she wants to say something but her voice is all stuck. Mike notices Blip sniggering by her side, and the annoyed glances she throws his way.

“I should tell you, I still have your rookie card…” She says, with a steady voice. “You’ve been my favourite player since…”

“Yeah don’t.” He says, looking away. “Makes you look stupid, makes me feel old.”

There’s a flash of disappointment in her face that doesn’t bother Mike. One of her teammates comes into his vision. A redhead who meets his eyes and looks away.

_Rachel._

“Would it be inappropriate to say that you might be the second prettiest teammate I’ve ever had.” He says to Ginny Baker, more in an effort to distract himself.

“It would.” She nods, with a knowing smile. “Wait…” She frowns. “ _Second_ prettiest?”

“Yeah, I was in this charity softball game with DiCaprio.” He fakes a faraway look. “Beautiful eyes! Anyway! I guess you’re the starting pitcher.” He says.

She purses her lip and nods.

“That’s weird – and I guess  _this is_  inappropriate to say as well –“ He says. “But I’ve haven't batted to a female pitcher since I was eight.”

A calm look engulfs her face. Mike notices how her eyes go steely focused, and one corner of her mouth screws upwards – a lopsided, daring grin. She sucks in her teeth, her soft full mouth pouting pensively for a second before she smiles wide and for some reason Mike is captivated by those dimples -

(– four, he counts. Two on either side of her lips, two large ones in the hollows of her cheeks.)

“I’ll try to be gentle.” She says, good-naturedly. Mike detects the hidden warning in her tone, though. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

(When he shakes her hand, he’s surprised. It’s not soft and smooth like he expected. The grip is firm and there are calluses on the sides of her fingers, rubbing over the dorsum of his palm that he finds oddly familiar.)

 

She strikes him out the first inning.

The first ball, it’s because he’s all casual about it. It’s a could-be-better two-seam fastball that’s just this side of a wild, in the strike zone and he would have hit it had he not been absorbed by her posture, stance and the way she throws.

He reckons, she’s played her share of ball. So, he takes the second one seriously. That knuckle ball doesn’t even kiss the edge of his bat before it lands in the catcher’s mitt.

The third time, he’s got his game face on - a perfect screwball sails through and he’s standing there looking like an idiot after he swings – it’s only when the flamboyant umpire calls it ( _Sttrrike three! Yer out!_ ) that he realizes what happened.

 

It’s the first time he’s been sent walking in a long time. So what if it’s a dummy game? So what if it didn’t count in his career statistics. Mike Lawson batted those last two pitches with the same seriousness he took to a routine professional game.

His teammates think his ego’s bruised because he was axed by a woman at a public event.

That’s the thing.  _That_  woman was no amateur hobbyist who played ball on the weekends. That right there, was a professional-level pitcher and she could take  _him_  on. His ego is bruised because he thinks he lost to a solid gamer.

(Mike’s not the only one she defeats. By the end of the inning, in a game where fifty percent of the players are professional baseball players, Ginny Baker’s stellar performance gets more cheers and hurrahs than all of them put together.)

After four innings they have the option to switch two professional teammates with celebrity players – part of the fund-raising strategy.

(“Y’know! Like a 'Steal'– on  _The Voice_?” Eliot the Sales Strategist piped up when Mike called it a dumbfuck idea before he went up to bat that morning.

Now, though -  he’s happy about it. He only asks for  _one_. )

Her team won’t settle for anyone other than Sanders in her place. Mike doesn’t blink when he sells his friend out. Blip doesn’t take offence – in fact the sonnovabitch isn’t even surprised. He’s been throwing smug ‘I told you so’s’ ever since she walked him.

“I’ve been answering questions about you from my teammates, all morning and that is not easy for me, y’know.” He ribs, while he walks with her to the mound. “Talking about other people? They tell me I’m a narcissist.”

She’s looking at her glove and snorts in agreement.

His eyes fall on Rachel who’s sitting in the dugout. She’s chatting with  _that_  guy. Mike feels the twinge again, but it doesn’t hurt the way it did before the game.

That’s what baseball does for him. The adrenaline, the thrill of playing a good game, the challenge – it’s all like a drug – a drug that abates the unbearable seething pain of loss he feels, every time shit happens in his life.

“I love this game, y’know.” He says – thinking out loud more than anything. “Baseball – I mean.”

 “I know.” She says, pawing her cleats at the dust. “I love it too.”

“Hey! How come you never went pro?” He says, donning his mask. He wonders how they’re chatting so comfortably when they barely know each other.

“My dad wanted me to go all the way.” She says, smiling sadly. “He thought I had a shot at it.”

“You mean like the NPF?”

She looks up at him, meeting him squarely in the eyes. “I mean the MLB.”

The idea of a woman playing on a major league team is as preposterous as there ever is. He can’t help the condescending snort he lets out.

“Be serious! Baker! They’d never let a woman on the team in a million years.” He says.

(He’s already calling her by her last name. Like she’s always been one of his teammates.)

She shrugs, like it’s something she hears all the time.

“Look, I’m not being a dick.” He says. “Even with that trick pitch of yours, do you really think you could have broken the glass ceiling.”

She rolls her shoulders back and cranes her neck, gearing up to play. “I guess, we’ll never know.” She says.

Mike detects a hint of loss in her eyes.

 

His hypothesis pays off. They  _do_  make better partners than they do opponents. Their plays are pure beauty with the spirit of the game at the heart of it. Their collective intelligence has Sander’s scampering to home, only to be declared out just after Mike gets him with the ball.

He’s grinning victoriously watching her face light up. All dimples and cheers, bouncing off the ground, fist bumping in the air.  The game is such a success the audience cheers are almost like that of the crowd in a real game. Mike actually can’t contain his energy and actually hugs her. Just briefly – because he feels something the tighten inside him when their bodies make contact. There’s a shy look in her eyes when they breakaway.

He feels just that little flutter in his chest, a whole two years’ worth of grief and tension leaving him as he watches her being swept away by the others.

He thinks this game’s the most fun he’s ever had in a long time.

 

The after party is blast. Everyone’s all hopped up on booze and the thrill of the game. He's tired of listening to remarks and compliments on how it felt like a real game and how everyone played so well. They raised a lot of money too – so whatever. Social media is all abuzz too and Mike’s phone keeps pinging every second - so much that he's forced to put it on silent. 

Mike spots her at the bar, nursing a drink and  _not_ -looking at Trevor Davis of the Cardinals trying to strike up a conversation with her. She looks peeved actually – down to the point where she’s going to snap.

“I told you, I don’t date ballplayers.” He hears her grind out as he comes within ear shot.

He feels a pinch of disappointment. He doesn’t know why.

“Hey! Baker!” He shouts out to her, gathering their attention. “Wanna hit the batting cages at the stadium? You and me” He drawls, keeping a sharp eye on Davis, who takes the hint.  “I really gotta see more of that screwgie.”

She’s so taken aback by his interruption that she takes him seriously and checks her watch. When she realizes what he’s doing, she stifles a smile, totally brushes Davis off, and hops off the barstool, making her way to him. She looks back at Davis, who’s is clearly unhappy and scowling at Mike.  When she sees that he’s buzzing off and she exhales with relief.  

“Thank you.” She says softly and goes to a more vacant side of the bar. Mike joins her, calling for a beer.

“You’re welcome.” He says, smugly.

“So.”

“So.”

“I had a lot of fun today.” She says.

"Yeah, me too." He sighs. “Hey! Y’know I’m sorry I was such a cynic earlier out on the field. But, I have to ask…”

She raises an eyebrow with expectation.

Mike can’t help glance over her shapely lips and thinking that he wouldn’t mind kissing her. He shakes the thought off, focuses on her eyes.

Pretty damned eyes.

Thing is - he doesn’t feel like using his usual tricks and charms on her. He reckons she’ll see right through them anyway. There’s something comfortable about being around her. Something about her aura that reconnects him to that exhilarating feeling, the very first time, when he was eight – hitting the ball out of the park.

He’s not drunk – yet, and he’s not emotional any more, to confuse his feelings. He knows he’s got a crush on her.

“…you were saying?” She says, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah – I mean – so what happened? How come you never tried for the big leagues?”

“Oh! Y'think I’m good enough for your merry band of soldiers, now?” She teases.

He chuckles. “Nah – it’s just. Look, it’s not easy. Every athlete has a dream. Pursuing it is the tough part.”

She nods in acknowledgement. “I had the dream too.” She says, quietly.

“And it seems to me like you had someone rooting for you. Did you try -? The minors at least?”

She sighs. Her face drops, her eyes avert. Mike feels stupid – he can sense he hit a raw nerve.

She shrugs, and smiles at the bartender when he hands them their drinks.

“I uh…” She says, smacking her lips pensively after she sips her drink. She gets a faraway look when her face turns to him. “I guess, I chose the dress.”

Mike doesn’t have a fucking clue what that means. But - there’s a painful story there, and Mike knows it. Baseball in its essence is steeped in the bittersweet. Built on the memories of failed hopes as much as victorious dreams. He always considers himself one of the lucky ones to have gotten where he is.

He thinks that if anyone could have broken through that glass ceiling, it might have been Ginny Baker.

He thinks they lost a good one there.

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> I need a baseball beta.  
> Apologies for any technical faux pas on that front.  
> I also need reviews because apparently I cannot do anything else but think Bawson.


End file.
